


A Brighter Color

by UglyWettieWrites



Category: Spies of Warsaw (TV)
Genre: Cock Worship, DT one word ficlet requests, Dirty Talk, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Angst, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Pussy Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 18:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UglyWettieWrites/pseuds/UglyWettieWrites
Summary: Things are heating up in the woods around Warsaw. After his latest heartbreak, he is intent on focusing on his mission, but his friend Artur introduces him to a fascinating woman at a party with a mission - and a painful history - of her own.





	A Brighter Color

He noticed the woman in pink satin as he made the rounds. He smiled graciously at the dignitaries and their wives, but his eye was inevitably drawn to her. Her companion was visibly younger, and in a suit so new it gleamed in the mellow light. She looked at him affectionately as he lit a cigarette and handed it to her. Her lovely mouth curved into an intimate smile.

It moved him. It was strange, in this wilderness, to see such open sincerity. It only made him more curious.

“Who is that?” he whispered to his friend, Artur.

He took off his specs and squinted in her direction. “Ah, yes. Of course.” He put his glasses back on and rubbed his aquiline nose. It was a self-conscious movement that Jean recognized well. He knew her. Well, possibly.

“Shall I introduce you?” he said. His face lit up.

“Please,” Jean-Francois said. He brushed the lapels of his coat and straightened up.

“Milagros!” he said, extending his arms for a hug. “You actually came.”  She nearly tackle hugged him. The people around them wrinkled their noses at the display, but she seemed oblivious to the august tenor of the room.

“Como andas, querido?” she said into his shoulder, then pushed him away. “Wait, I forgot I’m angry at you.” She had an accent, but seemed comfortable with the language.

“Why ever for?” he said. He beamed.

“You promised to visit me often, and I haven’t seen you in over a week,” she said, mock-pouting. He stared at them both, waiting patiently to be introduced. She had tightly curled hair the color of mink, with warm golden highlights. Unlike the other women, she chose not to flatten it down with lacquer, so it curled wildly against her temples and the nape of her neck. Her dark eyes were the same color, as was her skin. The hue and softness made his mouth water. He fidgeted with the thought, until he realized why.

He was craving _marron glacé_. How long has it been since had the treat? It was hard to remember the last time he tasted that kind of sweetness. Now, all he tasted was the dirty coin flavor of adrenaline as he crawled on forest floors with a gun clenched in his fist.

He wiggled his shoulders, and his joints crackled.

“Milagros, this is-”

She held up her finger for silence as her eyes traveled up his body, taking in every detail luxuriously slow. He resisted the urge to smile. He felt liquid warmth flood his mouth again as they locked eyes. She extended her hand.

“Milagros Zayid Bétancourt,” she said.

“Bétancourt?” he said, holding her hand.

“No slightly racist commentary on my first surname? How refreshing. Anyway, my maternal grandfather is French,” she said. “But please, don’t speak French too fast at me – I only know the bare minimum.”

“I promise I won’t,” he said. He bowed his head and pressed his lips to her knuckles. He kissed a bit more enthusiastically than he usually did. Her skin tasted of iron and almonds. “And I am sorry you’ve had to deal with such unpleasantness in Warsaw.”

“Yes.” He still held her hand, to her ill-concealed amusement. He let go and bowed again. A server passed by holding glasses of red wine. “Wait!” She touched her lips to it and sighed.

“Not up to your usual standard?” Artur said. His voice quivered with amusement.

“It’s not about quality, Artur. It’s about nostalgia,” she said, and patted his chest. “This wine tastes dreary. Like never ending war. Like grapes grown in blood-soaked earth.” She made a face and handed him the glass.

“Huh,” he said, holding up the glass to the light. He sniffed it, then drank. “It’s French.”

“Perhaps it’s time to go home, no?” his as yet unintroduced companion said. He tried to put his arm around her waist, but she moved away.

“No! There’s nothing but books and silence there. And more of that dreary wine.”

“I can go and keep you company, if you like,” Artur said, taking another sip. As the wine sat on his tongue, his eyebrow rose. He didn’t taste blood, but iron, and the tannic richness that mimicked earth. As usual, she was right, but said her truth in her own roundabout, poetic way.

“I know exactly what you mean,” she said, and winked at him. “I won’t see your face for the whole of the evening – you only come up for air, and more wine.”

Jean-Francois was mystified. Were they lovers? He was slightly scandalized by her language, but it made her no less interesting.

Artur blushed through his dismissive laughter. “Nonsense! I will live to entertain you.”

“I wouldn’t burden you in such a way,” she said, turning back to Jean-Francois. “I feel terribly rude. You haven’t given me your name.”

“No, mademoiselle, it’s entirely my fault. I’ve been distracted,” he said, and gave her his most luminous grin. “Colonel Jean-Francois Mercier, ever at your service.” He bowed again.

“That’s better,” she said, nodding at Artur. “Oh, and meet my dear friend Ricardo,” she said, pointing to her companion. The young man had a steady gaze and a firm handshake.

“A pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” he said, in better English.

“What’s that? A bit of Cambridge?” Jean-Francois said, smiling.

“Perhaps, sir, perhaps,” he said. “I attended university there not long ago.”

“Don’t get him started. He’s insufferable about it,” she said, but she was smiling. “I’m so proud.” She gave him a tight hug. “Not long ago he was clinging to my skirts, wind and dirt-scented, and now he’s a proper doctor.”

“Wind and dirt-scented?” Jean-Francois said.

“He loved to be outside,” she said, and touched him.

“You are too kind, Milly,” he said. “The truth is, I was their gardener’s son. Our fathers grew into great friends, and her father paid for my schooling. He saved my life.” His face was grave.

Milagros waved her hand. “It was a trifle. You’re brilliant, and a mind like yours deserves to be challenged. It wasn’t charity. It was common sense. And, furthermore, it was you who saved me.” She squeezed his hand. He went from mystified to intrigued. Ricardo noticed his expression and tried to explain further.

“I was still in Cambridge when the worst of the purges happened,” he said. “But Milly was still in Spain, and in grave danger. I snuck back in and got her out before the worst of it.”

“Huh,” Mercier said. “That’s some cloak and dagger activity.”

“Don’t be deceived. I could not have done it without a great deal of help.” He turned to Milagros. “And now, it’s time to take you home. It was a pleasure meeting you, Colonel.” He bowed slightly, and took her by the elbow. He thought it strange that the same woman who hungrily eyed him without shame just minutes earlier would let herself be led in such a way.

“Until next time, Colonel Mercier,” she said, and smiled at him.

“Please call me Jean-Francois,” he said.

“Can I call you Jean?” she said. “The hyphenate is a mouthful.”

He smiled. “Bien sûr,” he said, and bowed again. She was back to bold.

“Artur, do bring him along next time you visit,” she said, and blew him a kiss.

“I shall drag him there, if I must,” Artur said, and caught the kiss in his hand. He’d never seen the middle-aged man act so fanciful. Him and Ricardo shared a meaningful look, and they left. Artur sipped his wine and looked around. The people around them seemed relieved that the couple left, but to him, the ballroom seemed infinitesimally darker.

“You will invite me along the next time you see her?” Mercier said. He grabbed a glass of champagne, and smiled at a young woman transfixed by his dress blues.

“I’m a man of my word,” Artur said, suppressing a grin.

* * *

**Three Days Later**

 

It was miserably hot.

He thought late summer in Warsaw would be easy, but of course, this year, there was a heat wave. He tried to read the news, but the sheets of crinkling paper over his lap made him hotter. He threw it aside with a groan and pondered taking off his shirt,which was already damp with sweat. He walked in front of the table fan and sighed. The metal blades sliced the sound, and it made him smile. He hummed something into the fan – an old lullaby he once sang to his daughter. It was silly, but no one was watching. He sang louder. The spooky, broken sound of his own voice gave him goosebumps. The phone ringing made him jump.

“Oui,” he said, too clearly.

“Mercier, it’s Artur.  Did I interrupt your lunch?”

Mercier looked around.”Not at all. It’s far too hot to eat.”

“Good. I’m going to visit Ricardo and Milagros. Would you like to come along?”

“Wonderful! When will you be here?”

“Half an hour.”

“Excellent!” If he was going to see her, he had to take a quick bath.

Artur paused, but he couldn’t resist. “Gotta make yourself pretty for Milly, eh?”

He hung up.

* * *

Milly’s flat was a third floor walk up. The marble steps were worn glossy by thousands of feet.

“What’s that face?” Artur said. He had a bottle of white wine tucked underneath his arm - something less bloody to appease Milagros.

“I suppose … I thought it would be nicer.”

Artur shrugged. “It’s much nicer than my dingy little room,” he said, and knocked on one of the two doors on the third floor. Ricardo opened. His shirt was open to the middle of his chest, and his suspenders hung around his hips.

“Artur, darling, you came!” he said, and hugged him in a way that made blood prickle in Mercier’s cheeks.

“I’m glad I got here before you melted, pet,” Artur said, and kissed the top of Ricardo’s curly head.

 _Pet_. Kissing. That hug. Mercier rocked on his heels.

Artur walked into the apartment confidently, and into the kitchen. “I brought you a peace offering, Milly,” he yelled. “It’s on ice.” He put it in a brand new refrigerator that looked out of place in that kitchen.

“You like it?” Ricardo said, walking up behind him. “We had to pick between a better flat, or a flat we could put this beast into. Milly picked this,” he said, and pulled out a metal ice tray and put the wine bottle in the shelf.

“Ricki, I’m melting,” Milly said from the living room. “Apurate. Hurry.”

“I’ll be right out!” he yelled. The ice made a satisfying crunch as he twisted the tray, and poured it into a bowl. “Come on. I don’t think she knows you’re here.”

He walked behind him down the long hallway to the sitting room. She sat in front of a window, dress unbuttoned, and skirt hiked high over her hips. She wore skin-colored nylons that gleamed over her skin … silk, a rarity. Her camisole was the same material, but dotted darker with sweat.

“Dios mio, it took you long enough,” she said as Ricardo put the bowl of ice in front of the fan blowing at her. Her eyes were closed, and she blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Her head was thrown back, and she was shiny with sweat from forehead to the cleft of her breasts.

“Tell me, Jean, does it get this way in France?” she said. He was surprised she knew he was there. And more surprised that she wouldn’t make an effort to gather herself. “You’ll have to excuse me about my state of undress. It’s hot as the waiting room of hell, and this is my home. The thought of buttoning up makes me want to scream.”

“Do as you like,” he said. She raised her head and smiled at him. She was so beautiful he took a step back.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like a cool drink?” she said, and stretched. He tried not to look at the soft, nude gleam of her hip as she pointed her toes into it. It was … intimate. Like a morning stretch.

“Yes,” he said simply, and sat down on her sofa. It was threadbare red velvet, but comfortable.

“What’s your poison, as the Americans say? I’ve got vodka, Scotch, a drop of spiced rum-”

“Rum,” he said. It had been a long while since he had it.

“A man of good taste. I hoard this stuff more carefully than my jewelry,” she said, pouring the rich amber liquid into a glass. She smelled it. “Mmmm. It’s so fine you can still smell the cane. It’s both vegetal and vanillic.” She poured herself a glass too. “Sorry about the alliteration. Regrettable.” He smiled as she threw two ice cubes into their drinks and handed him the glass. “It counts as a cold drink, no?” she said.

“Oui,” he said, and drank it. It was a good Caribbean rum, and made him think back on better times.

“You like it?” she said. She tucked her legs underneath her and crunched  the ice.

He looked around and noticed the silence. “Where’s Ricardo?”

She waved her hand. “They’re off doing what men do. Would you like to take a walk?”

He made a face, and she laughed her full-body laugh. “I know. But trust me. We should take a walk.”

She buttoned up her dress and smoothed her hair back. “Just a couple times around the block. It doesn’t take them long.”

His eyes grew. She was talking about Ricardo … and Artur. Considering his experiences in the military, it surprised him that he never noticed Artur’s proclivities.

She hastily pinned a hat on, and slid into some heels. “Ready to go, soldier?”

“Allons-y,” he said, and led the way down the stairs. Outside, the air was hazy with heat. They leaned against the building and fanned themselves.

“The things I do for love,” she said, and walked in the direction where there were more trees. He lagged behind, if only to peek at the languorous movement of her hips. When he finally walked beside her, she gave him a crooked grin. “Had a good enough look?”

He flushed even redder. She laughed.

“I come from Spain, where the men don’t only look. You’re a gentleman from top to bottom, I assure you,” she said.

“Spain,” he said, trying to unravel the thread of his thoughts. She was so free with her language. It was hard to concentrate. “Ricardo says he saved you. How?” he said.

She stopped suddenly and turned to him. “About Ricardo and Artur. I can trust your discretion?” she said.

“It’s too late now, even if you couldn’t,” he said. He was getting entirely too used to her frank speaking.

“I mean it, Jean-Francois. You will not say anything to anyone?” she said.

“No, Milagros,” he said. “I’m aware of what is at stake.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Good. I don’t think I could live without Ricki, and Artur is so good to him,” she said. She started walking again. He followed, and she patted her pockets. “Do you have a cigarro?”

“Of course,” he said, and pulled a cigarette case from his pocket.

She put the cigarette on her lip, and waited for him to produce fire. She inhaled the smoke deeply.

“Thanks, Jean,” she said.

“De rien,” he said, lighting his own.

“Je t'ai dit de ne pas me parler français,” she said, in a perfect northern accent. _I told you not to speak French to me._

“Mais vous parlez si bien,” he said, using the formal.

She snorted. He was surprised at her reaction.

“My grandfather refused to speak nothing else,” she said. “Monstre.”

“I apologize,” he said. “But I insist that you speak it beautifully.”

“I would,” she said cryptically. “By the way, he’s not dead. Sadly.”

“I see,” he said. She leaned against an old oak and squinted through the leaves at the sky.

“The leaves. They’re new. How could they already look washed out?”

“Hmmm?” Mercier said.

“The colors. The food, the sky. Everything is grayer here.”

She looked beautiful. The peach cotton dress she wore set off her smooth tan skin. There was a smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, which she had not bothered to powder. Sweat beaded above her blood red lips. Again, his mouth watered.

He smiled. “Where I grew up, it was different. Every season had the promise of color. Spring had its saturated pinks and yellows, and fall was fiery with bursts of orange and red, and the air was perfumed with the scent of the earth cooling,” he said.

She looked at him with new eyes. He had the rigid look of a soldier, and she assumed he had the mind to match. But he spoke poetry. He wasn’t just a pretty face.

“How about you?” he said, leaning on the tree trunk beside her. Cigarette smoke curled over his head.

“Orange and green,” she said, turning to him. “So bright it makes your mouth water in anticipation of the sweetness to come. And the sky above a blue so clear it doesn’t feel like sky. It feels like you’re standing under crystal roof of a cathedral, especially at sunset when it’s tinged with lavender and green and orange.”

“The sweetness to come?” he said, looking in her eyes.

“My father had orange orchards,” she said. “And he planted a special one, just for me. Mandarins and sweet oranges and almonds. I love almond everything,” she said. She wafted the scent of her lotion to him. “If you couldn’t already tell.”

“Delightful,” he said. He resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from above her upper lip with his thumb. “Don’t be so down on Eastern Europe,” he said. “There’s such beauty beyond the city.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry about the alliteration.” He winked.

“Forgiven,” she said. They walked for a block in silence.

“What have you been doing outside of the city?” she said suddenly.

“Hunting,” he said without missing a beat.

“And you take Artur with you?” she said smoothly.

“Sometimes,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. He felt something in her, beyond the flights of fancy. He wondered how much she knew.

“You need help with the big game that lies in wait in the trees,” she said, nodding. He stopped walking and stared at her. His mouth moved, but he didn’t know where to start. The afternoon held such promise, yet it had devolved into fear. He gently pulled her into an empty stone alcove.

“What do you mean?”

She looked up at him with fathomless eyes. Their intense clarity answered him. He was angry. Not at her, but at Artur. He knew.  For once, he didn’t want to get involved with a woman touched by evil, but it seemed like they didn’t exist. Not here in Europe.

“What has Artur told you?” he said. She looked down at her elbow, where he still grasped her. He let go.

“He and Ricardo speak openly. Artur holds his civilian guard meetings in our flat. We’re immigrants. Ironically, no one suspects us,” she said.

“ _Merde_ ,” Jean-Francois hissed under his breath. He warned Artur not to involve innocent people.

“To them, he’s an overglorified tour guide to you,” she said. “You’re just a retired soldier, here on the make like the other Western Europeans,” she said. “They think you’re a bit silly.” His brow furrowed. “Let them dismiss you. That way, you can do what you came to do in peace,” she said earnestly. She squeezed his hand.

“And what’s that?”  he said.

“Save the world,” she said, and started walking back home. It was too glib. He jogged to reach her, but she didn’t slow her pace.

“How much do you know?” he asked. He found he couldn’t be as grave as he wanted to be while panting and sweating.

“I know what I’ve lived. What killed my father, and my friends - what I’m running from. But it’s a labyrinth. The more I run, the closer I get to the fray,” she said. “I learned quickly there’s no escaping it.”

“But how did you end up here. Specifically,” he said.

“Artur,” she said. She stopped and gave him a surprised look. “You didn’t know he was the one who helped Ricky take me out of Spain?”

“No,” he said. His shoulders sagged.

“He was in England at the time. They met in one of their secret meetings. When things started to fall apart in Spain, we lost contact. My father, having given his land over to the revolutionaries willingly, was killed by those that came into power when he refused to help them wrest it back. I was next, being a dirty bourgeois bitch. My grandfather led the pack for the death squads. He nearly succeeded, but Ricky got there first and secreted me out with Artur’s help.”

“Your grandfather killed your father?” he said, shocked.

“Yes,” she said. “He never liked him much anyway,” she said, and started walking again. “I got away.”

“Where is he now?” he asked.

"France. There’s something of interest brewing there, last I heard,” she said. She knew a great deal more than she let on.

“Milagros!” he shouted, and caught up. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she said, suddenly irritated.

“For your suffering,” he said.

“Why? You didn’t cause it. And It’s no more than yours,” she said. So, Artur told her about him as well. She noticed his sudden exhaustion. “Come. The fireworks should be done by now.”

They smoked and walked quietly until they got to her apartment block. He leaned against the stone to finish his cigarette. She read his mind.

“Come upstairs. They’re done with the passion, but now is a time for food and conversation – the best part of love. He won’t be down for a long while,” she said. He took a deep breath, then threw the cigarette and crushed it under his heel. She opened the door. He followed.

* * *

“You wouldn’t dare!” Artur said merrily.

“I would, and I will,” Ricky said, and jumped over the table to tickle Arthur's side.

“We’re back!” Milly said loudly.

“Ah, good. Have a drink with us,” Ricky said, holding up a bottle of red. “We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” Milly said, taking off her hat and shoes with a sigh.

“You forgot?” Ricky said, giving her an incredulous look.

“Uh oh. I feel caught out now,” Milly said, holding out a tumbler for a pour.

“It’ll be a year today. Desde España,” he said.

She hugged both Artur and Ricky. “Of course! The rescue! My heroes,” she said, and held her glass high. “To bravery in the face of craven villainy!”

“May they all rot in the hell they refuse to believe in!” Ricky said, clinking his glass. Artur frowned. He wasn’t a religious man. “Except you, darling. You get a pass for good behavior.” He kissed the tip of his nose. He rose to give Milagros a proper hug. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and took a deep breath. He smelled like love – a mix of colognes and righteous sweat. Her body reacted immediately to it. For a second, she didn’t mind the heat.

“Te quiero mucho, Ricky,” she said softly.

“Y que del Francés?” he said to her, just as quietly. _What of the Frenchman_?

“No se. Veremos,” she said, and winked at him. _I don’t know. We’ll see_. She took a sip of wine and nodded. “This is better. Much better,” she said.

“You would say that,” Artur said. “It’s Rioja.”

“Less blood. More Basque,” she said, referring to where it is made. “It reminds me of home.”

“It’s where your father came from,” Ricky said. “But what of your mother?”

“I also adore a glass of champagne,” she said. “You got some?” she wiggled Artur’s shoulder.

“Sadly, no,” he said. “Will you be having dinner with us?” he said. “I know a butcher around the corner and he’s holding a nice leg of lamb for us. Ricky will roast some potatoes like he does... ”

“Perhaps. If the smell draws me out,” she said, and kissed his cheek. She looked at Jean-Francois, who stood rather stiffly in a corner with his glass of wine untouched. “Come, Jean. Finish your drink with me.”

She walked back to the sitting room. The fan blew its anemic breeze over a bowl now filled with warm water.

“Champagne,” he said softly.

“Ouiai,” she said, standing in front of the window. The sun was on the verge of setting, but the heat was relentless. She downed the wine and sat on the windowsill. He stood by the sofa, but didn’t sit down. He stared at her.  “Are you going to finish that?” she said, pointing to the wine.

“Do you want it?” he said. He drank from it. The Rioja was lighter than the french wine from the party. Less tannic. More fruit, just like she said.

“Yes,” she said. She held out her hand. He walked to her, and she spread her legs to accommodate him. She took the glass from him, drank deep, and licked her lips. He stared at the red crescents painted into the lip of the glass.

“Wine rarely works to quench such heat,” he said.

“Then what do you suggest?” she said.

He touched her hips. “What did you whisper to Ricardo?” he said.

“You don’t miss anything,” she said, and smiled. She canted her hips forward. Her thighs grazed his. His hand moved up to her waist. She was furnace hot.

“I don’t know much Spanish, but he mentioned me.”

“El francés,” she said, wiping the sweat from underneath his plump lower lip.

“What did he say?” he said. His hand moved slowly higher, to play with the pearl buttons of her dress.

Again, she smiled. He undid the first button. The lace of her camisole was now exposed. It was dark with sweat.

“He was wondering...” she brought her lips kissing close to his,”...whether I planned to take you to bed,” she said, and gracefully jumped off the sill and pushed him aside. “For logistical purposes, of course. A matter of privacy.”

Heat prickled where it mattered. He had a weakness for bold women.

“Ah,” he said, sitting where she sat. She poured herself more wine from the abandoned bottle on the side table. She drank it down and put the glass on the table beside it.

“It’s a matter of desire,” he said, emphasizing the last word. “You patiently endure someone else’s storms of love. Can he?”

“How poetic,” she said. He shrugged. She walked to him and caressed his tie. “It’s a matter of greed.”

“How so?” he said. She reached up and loosened it, then threw it aside.

“It’s not that I’m ashamed for someone else to hear my pleasure,” she said, and unbuttoned his collar, “It’s that the pleasure is precisely that – mine, and my lover’s. I don’t want to share it with anyone else.”

The two men walked into the sitting room. Artur quickly retrieved his shoes, and Ricardo his tie.

“We’re going for a little walk, negrita. We’ll be back with lamb and more wine,” Ricki said, and blew her a kiss. “The least bloody we can find.”

“Of course, darling,” she said. “We’ll be here.” She waved at them. Mercier was fascinated by her nonchalance despite her half-nakedness.

“Esprimelo como una naranja, querida,” Ricki said, and walked out. _Juice him like an orange, my love._

He was aching. He kissed her, sucking on her painted lips and sliding his tongue between them to taste her sour sweetness. Her body yielded to him, but a moment later, she pushed him away.

“You take liberties, Frenchman,” she said, wiping at her smudged mouth. Her nipples poked through the fabric of her dress, despite the heat.

He licked his lips. “I apologize. It was … I misread,” he said.

“I suppose we’re a bit more frank in Spain,” she said. “Words don’t necessarily lead to action. We say them for the pleasure of it.”

“Merely for the pleasure of it?” he said, cocking his head. He wiped the rest of the lipstick from his mouth with his sleeve. “Then let me be frank.”  She walked into his arms and looked up at him. He licked the pad of his thumb and wiped the red from her chin. “I’ve tasted your mouth, and it made wonder about your other tastes.”

She caressed the back of his neck. “Such as?” she said.

“The gleaming skin of your neck,” he said. It made him tremble not to kiss, but he resisted. He would wait until she asked.

She caressed his neck, then undid another button. “Y despues?”

“The tender, overheated skin underneath your breasts,” he said. His lips brushed hers. Her eyebrows rose. He was good. She undid another button and caressed his chest.

“And?” she said. Her hands moved down to his waist.

“The salty cup of the back of your knees,” he said, and pressed his lips on the apple of her cheeks, which were pink with heat. She plucked the waist button of his pants. He grew underneath it.

“You have an intrepid tongue, sir,” she said. She finally cupped him. She sighed at his solid heat. “But where would your hands be?”

“Anywhere you want them, madamoiselle,” he said, pressing her hand to him.

“I am no madamoiselle,” she said. “Call me Milly.” Her hand moved rhythmically over his pants. “And I don’t want to hear flattery. Where are your hands, Jean?” she said earnestly. She squeezed him.

“Ta chatte,” he said softly into her skin. He squeezed her bottom, and she sighed. She cleaned the remainder of her lipstick off on his shoulder, and rubbed her swollen lips on his neck, near his ear. “Spreading your lips and rubbing-”

“Rubbing?” she said. She licked his neck, then kissed. Her hand moved steadily at the front of his pants.

“Ton clito,” he said. “I would slide my fingers in your sweet, slick holes and-”

“Holes?” she said, and bit his earlobe gently. She unbuttoned his pants and reached inside. He was damp and hot.

“I don’t neglect any pathway to pleasure,” he said. His mouth was red and his eyes were amber with arousal. She squeezed him right beneath the head of his cock. He groaned.

“Even in this condition?” she asked, stroking. The silk of his underwear just accentuated his rampant arousal.

He locked eyes with her. “You say you are greedy. I am not,” he said, canting his hips into her hand. Her thighs were slick.

“This reminds me that we were speaking of tastes,” she said pointedly. He started to pull her skirt up. He moaned when he felt hot skin.

“It’s a pity it’s just words,” he said, and sucked on her bottom lip.

Her hand stopped moving. “Come,” she said. She walked out to another hallway. Carpets hung from the walls. The only open door was at the end of it. She walked in, and he picked her up in a breathless, desperate kiss. He sucked her tongue hungrily and she held on, letting him take his pleasure. She broke the kiss, and he looked around. There was a brass bed on the corner, in a perfect angle between two large, mercifully open windows. The light evening traffic milled around three stories below. There was a large oak armoire against the wall, but most of her clothes hung on a rack beside it. The hem of a delicate flowered dress fluttered in the breeze.

“The breeze promises rain,” she said as she unbuttoned her dress. She shook it off and it pooled at her feet by the window. She wore a pale pink camisole and a garter belt, but no panties. She sat on the windowsill and spread her legs. “You were saying?”

He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it from his pants. “Come here.” It was not a request.

She stood in front of him, and he fell to his knees, pressing his thirsty lips on her belly. He caressed up her stockinged legs, then undid the garters with one hand. He rolled down her stockings and licked the firm flesh of her thighs, closer and closer to where she was fragrant and slick. She put her hands in his hair. He looked up at her, then at the silky hair between her thighs.

“I’m never greedy,” he said, and buried his face there. Her hair was deliciously wet and hot. He swirled his tongue in it, questing for her slit. When he found it, her heat made sweat bead his whole body. He found her swollen bud quickly and licked a circle around it. She moaned and nearly lost her balance.

“Come to bed,” she said, tugging on his shoulders. He grabbed her ass and slid his whole tongue in her slit, coaxing her to grind. She sighed and put her leg over his shoulder. Rain began to fall softly. His tongue was a velvety friction that made her eyes roll with pleasure. Frenchmen loved to eat as much as the Spanish, but she would fall over if she came like this. She pulled him away gently and crawled into bed. He followed close behind and buried his nose in her cleft. He groaned and licked just as avidly, and she slowly lost strength in her upper body. Her face was in the sheets, and her own panting breath made her cheeks damp. His tongue moved down to her clit again, but instead of teasing, he sucked. She yipped and tried to sit up, but he pushed her down with a grunt and kept sucking until it felt her swollen flesh would fill his mouth. His hungry sucking, slow and deliberate, echoed in the almost empty room. It was deliciously naughty, and fresh arousal wet his cheeks. He stopped. She felt him part her lips and lick her twitching opening, then slide his tongue inside. She grabbed twin fistfuls of sheet and bucked. He chuckled.

“Mmmm, tu est si beau,” he whispered at her bud, and sucked on her clit again. It was more a slow, lingering kiss, and her toes curled. “Come,” he said, and slapped her ass. He lay back on her bed. The look on her face made him laugh. “I’m not stopping, chérie. But first, help me strip.”  She finished unbuttoning his pants and pulled them off. She threw them in a corner and lowered his underwear with her teeth, just enough to expose his precumslick erection. She licked her lips, but just as she was going to lick, he covered himself with his hand.

“I want to have a better taste,” he said, and his gaze dropped to her pussy. He tapped his shoulder. “Sit.”

“So do I,” she said, pouting. His cock was wet, and promisingly thick. Her lips tingled.

“Soon enough,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “I promise that what I do will make it better, when the time comes.”

“And what will you do?” she said. She tickled his hairy thigh. He spoke a big game.

“I want you to straddle me, tease me with your softness, then grind your cunt against my face until I can’t resist worshipping you until you come in my mouth.”

“Carajo,” she said softly. He wasn’t joking. She straddled his shoulders, and he reached underneath her camisole to squeeze her breasts. He took a deep breath.

“Tu es si delicieuse,” he said softly, and kissed her. She decided she didn’t mind French at all, when he spoke it. His nose parted her slit, and his tongue followed. She was still and held on to her headboard as he licked her from back to front. The tip of his tongue pressed right underneath her clit. “Move. Let me know where you want my tongue,” he whispered in her flesh.

The boom of thunder made them both jump.

“God have mercy! Shall I close the window before the storm?” she said.

“ _Non_ ,” he growled, and began licking her swollen folds. His fingers dug into her hips, and his moans made her toes curl. “Viens,” he said between licks. “Use me, ma petite.” He slapped her ass.

Lightning cracked, and then came the downpour. Mist drifted to them as the fat drops hit the stone. She buried her hands in his hair and gyrated over his face, and just as he promised, he licked exactly where she guided. His open mouth on her, so soft and hot, was delightful. She sighed and threw her head back. She might be able to come just from the friction of his parted lips alone. But she needed more.

“Lick,” she said. His tongue danced on her folds. “Here,” she said, spreading her lips to expose her swollen clit. He smiled and licked delicate circles on it. She was soaking wet, but she didn’t know whether it was her or his eager saliva.  He flicked his tongue just underneath her clit, and she groaned. He found her sweet spot. He teased her there with a pointed tongue and watched her twitch and sigh above him. What a view. His cock throbbed insistently. He wasn’t one to touch himself before love – it took away from the pleasure. But he was tempted.

She twisted her hips until her clit was in his mouth. “Chupa,” she said hoarsely. _Suck._

He tugged both her nipples and obeyed, sucking rhythmically as she ground on him. He only stopped to lave her copious wetness, then started again, hard enough that he wondered whether it hurt.

“Asi, precioso,” she sighed, and although his Spanish was rusty, he knew she was saying she liked it. “Que rico me lames el coño.”

He didn’t know what it meant, but he felt and tasted it. She was ready to come. He buried his face into her and kept at it, groaning deep in his throat. Her moans turned to pants, and she pulled his hair gently. Her belly muscles tightened. His cock twitched with anticipation. With a throaty groan, she started to twitch. She filled his mouth with musky salt, then fell sideways on the bed, sated.

“Where are you going?” he said, rolling over and pulling her to him.

“Nowhere, querido,” she said. “Dame tu polla.”  She spread her legs wide. She was wet everywhere, with sweat, saliva, and her own juices.

“Mmm,” he said, moving on top of her. “What does that mean?” he said.

“You tell me,” she said, stroking him. She bit her lower lip and moaned.

“Does it mean ‘nice prick?’” he said, and kissed her. Their tongues swirled around each other, and soon both their chins were slippery with her juices. His cock pressed into her opening.

“Close enough,” she said, wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him inside.

Lightning crackled, much closer. The building shook. “Putain!” he said and grabbed her headboard with one hand.

She rolled her hips into him. “Don’t be scared.”

He chuckled. “Mortar fire’s worse-” she kissed him silent. She grabbed his ass with both hands and bucked quickly underneath him. Her flesh sucked at him with need. He tried to establish a slow, rolling rhythm but she wanted something else. She pulsed her thighs on his hips and licked his earlobe.

“Harder, Jean,” she said. She didn’t bark it like an order. It was breathless need.

He held her tight and pounded into her, and even when she started to pant and writhe, he didn’t stop. She was liquid and soft and tight and his own orgasm threatened to ruin the rhythm, and she felt it.

“Do you want to come in my mouth?” she said. He thrust into her, his eyes half-closed with pleasure.

“Not yet,” he said. She spread her legs more and lay back on the pillows. He put his hands over her shoulders and rode her high, so he could see. She raked her nails softly down his chest, then her eyes drifted to where he surged inside her. He was completely soaked with her, and his hair stuck, brown and wet, on his lower belly.

“You look delicious, querido,” she said. “I want to taste you.” Her body rocked with his thrusts. His eyes went from her panting mouth to her breasts. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. She was talking too much. He could do better. He sat up on his haunches and pulled her to him, and entered her like that. She was beautifully on display in that position, and he fucked her deep, grasping her thighs.

She arched and groaned, and grabbed the headboard over her head. Now he had her.

“Good?” he said, thrusting into her.

She nodded and whimpered.

“Bien,” he said, and squeezed her breasts. Her eyes watered, and she pressed his hands to her breasts.

“Dámelo, Jean,” she said, as her panting breath quickened. _Give it to me_. Her thighs trembled on his hips. His balls tightened in response. Lightning lit up the bedroom. She reached between her legs and rubbed her clit. “Dámelo dámelo dámelo-” she bucked off his cock with her orgasm, but he fell on her and thrust through the delicious pulsing until she went lax beneath him.

He rolled off her and silently, she moved between his legs and took him into her mouth. Her tongue swirled on the purple crown of his cock, then she bowed her head until he nudged the back of her throat. He groaned and rolled his hips into her mouth. She gasped and took his hand and put it in her hair. She wanted him to feed her. He spread his legs and rolled his hips into her mouth, and she moaned into him as if she was the one being pleasured. She caressed his balls, and her tongue undulated and swirled on his shaft, teasing.

“You want me to come like this?” he said, pumping slowly into her mouth. She moaned roughly and ran her fingers in his damp pubic hair. She made a deliciously tight ring with her fingers on the root of his shaft and started her own slow, indulgent rhythm. Now his toes curled. “It is _delicieux_?” he said, caressing her hot cheek.

“Mmmm,” she said. He canted his hips until he popped out of her mouth. He drew a circle on the glossy tip of his cock as she stared. She licked her lips.

“Stroke, but suck only here,” he said, tracing around the ridge of his cock. She nodded and did as he asked, jerking his shaft as she swirled her tongue on the head of his cock. She was eager, and saliva dripped down his shaft to lube her stroking. She looked up at him with sleepy eyes. She rubbed her lips on him, then sucked.

“Doucement, ma petite,” he said. _Softly._

She began a slow stroke and suck that made him grab handfuls of blanket. She french kissed his cock, eyes closed in ecstasy. She wanted him, wanted his queue. He felt it in the velvety stroke of her tongue. Pleasure rolled, warm and sweet, up his spine. He pulsed, expecting her to stroke the come out of him. Instead, she took him all the way in her mouth and sucked every last drop from him with a long, low moan.

He fell back to the sheets and smiled at the ceiling. The rain still fell, but the storm had passed. He caressed her as she licked him clean from the crown of his cock to his belly button, then moved up his body for a kiss. Her mouth was musky with their shared tastes, and he kissed her deeply, unafraid.

“Milagros,” he said as he broke the kiss. She settled in his arms. “What does it mean?”

“Miracles,” she said.

He chuckled. “Miraculous indeed,” he said, caressing down her body. “You have a miraculous mouth.”

“You made it a pleasure,” she said, tracing his lower lip. “After months of drought, I was a bit … thirsty, I suppose,” she said, flushing. “Especially after hearing _aguaceros_ so close by, but not a drop to drink for me.”

“Was,” he said. “So you’re sated?”

“For the next hour or so,” she said, and winked at him. “It’s turned out to be such a lovely evening.”

“It’s pouring,” he said, looking toward the window.

“Exactly,” she said, and nuzzled his shoulder. Water pooled underneath the sill, on the stone tile. He pulled the thin cotton sheet over both of them.

“How about une petite sieste before dinner?” he said into her hair. His muscles were pleasantly sore. It had been a while since he’d had an encounter like that.

She sat up to look at him. “So you’ll stay for dinner?” She caressed his chest. Her sudden vulnerability made him pull her into his arms and give her butterfly kisses. She was a fascinating woman, equal parts bold and diffident.

“Bien sûr, if you’ll have me. I’ll remain as long you like,” he said, breathing deep and taking in the faint almond in her hair.

 


End file.
